


An Appropriate Response

by klove0511



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 07 AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klove0511/pseuds/klove0511
Summary: While Dean was in Purgatory, Sam disappeared. When Dean finally finds his brother, will there be anything left to save?





	An Appropriate Response

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I had so much fun working on this. Hurt!Sam is one of my favorite things to read. It’s my first time writing something like this, though, so I hope I tagged everything I needed to. If you find something I missed, please let me know. 
> 
> Written for the Wincest Reverse Bang, with my wonderful artist Amberdreams. Here's the link to the amazing art both on AO3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265905 and LJ: https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/615395.html! Go check it out!

_It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane. –_ Philip K. Dick, [VALIS](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fwork%2Fquotes%2F23607&t=OWVmMThhNjg3ZjY3NjQ3MzAxZDRkN2NiMmY2MWE1OGUwZWFkN2Q4NixUa25CcXpjUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AhYX4SrqcHU17InBi-Ij1mQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fklove0511.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F185678032830%2Fan-appropriate-response&m=1)

 

“I found him,” Dean said, voice shaky as he spoke to Jody. He paused, listening to her ask after his brother. “He’s ok. Alive, anyway.” Another pause, a covert glance at Sam cowering in the corner of the motel room. “Actually, yeah. We’re looking to lay low for a bit; I don’t suppose you know what the status is on Bobby’s place? Legally, I mean. If it’s an option, I thought I might fix it up for us.” Jody spoke, and he grinned. “Great. Let me know what you find out.”

Dean hung up and swiped a hand down his face. That was one problem sorted for the moment. Depending on what Jody found they would have a direction to go and something to do once they got there. Getting Sam there was going to be an issue, but that was a problem for another day. For today, his next task was getting Sam to actually eat something. He moved to the kitchenette to make a sandwich and winced when the overly loud sound of silverware clanking together made Sam flinch further into his corner and whine. It was better than yesterday when he’d started sobbing, but Dean hated seeing his brother like this.

Sandwich made, he slowly approached Sam. “Hey, made you something. Your favorite. Think you can eat for me?” And like yesterday, Sam refused to even make eye contact with him, staring at the floor with an intensely blank face that unnerved Dean. “Christ, what did they do to you, Sammy?”

Sam didn’t answer, but Dean hadn’t been expecting him to. He hadn’t acknowledged Dean’s presence at all since he’d been rescued, which was concerning enough on its own. Taking into account the way he also refused to eat, to shower, to even move from his corner, well, Dean was starting to worry that he wasn’t cut out for taking care of Sam in this state. It wasn’t going to stop him. He’d learn. He knew his brother, knew how to reach him. He’d figure this out.

Reluctantly, he left the plate on the floor, hoping that if he gave Sam some space today he’d try the sandwich. He’d obviously eaten something in captivity—Dean had been looking for him for months. He was emaciated to a point that had Dean worried (on top of all the other things worrying him about Sam), but he wasn’t dead.

Retreating to the beds on the other side of the small motel room, Dean tried to watch Sam without obviously watching him. After a good ten minutes, Sam slowly reached for the food. He hunched in on himself, glancing around like a scared animal, but he ate. Dean’s chest swelled with—something. Pride felt wrong—it was eating a goddamn sandwich. But it was also progress. He could, at the least, keep Sam alive now. Next step, using the freaking bathroom.

That was going to be harder. Sam did not want to be touched. The first time Dean had done it on accident Sam had yelped, and it had been one of the single most horrible noises Dean had ever heard. The second time had been on purpose—trying to get Sam into the car to come to the motel—and Sam had just shut down completely. It had taken a bit for Dean to realize, but Sam had been in the middle of a near silent panic attack for the duration of the drive. The only things that gave him away were his eyes and the way Dean could see his pulse fluttering in his throat, fast as a hummingbird. Since getting Sam inside, he’d been careful to avoid further contact.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face and looked out the window. The Rocky Mountains in the distance made for a picturesque view. He wondered how long they’d be able to hole up here. He didn’t love the idea of leaving Sam alone right now, but there was a limited amount of food in the refrigerator. Eventually—really, in the next day or two—he was going to have to go on a supply run. He supposed he could order food and have it delivered, but he wasn’t sure how Sam would react to a stranger knocking on their door. Probably badly. He sighed. They’d made progress today, and there was still time. Maybe he’d feel better about leaving Sam in a couple days.

Glancing behind him, he saw that Sam had finished his sandwich. He wanted to offer him more, fatten him up, but he feared making Sam sick. Regular, small meals. It would do the work in time. He had never been an especially patient person, but for Sam he’d make the effort. For Sam he’d always make the effort.

He padded over to Sam and crouched, trying to make himself look less threatening. Sam still cringed away, but it was maybe less than before. Or maybe Dean was just telling himself that. “Hey. Look, I know you don’t want me to touch you. So I’m not going to, ok? But, uh.” He ducked his head, not sure how to say this. “I’m not judging, all right, but I think you’d feel better if you got a shower. And, you know, other stuff.” He didn’t mention Sam’s hair. Whoever had kept him captive had kept it short, shaved down almost to the scalp, but they’d also done a shit job of it, leaving it rough and uneven, longer clumps existing in patches all over. Dean wanted to take the clippers to it, at least even it out for Sam, but that possibility was days, maybe weeks away. It would probably have grown out by the time Sam could tolerate a sharp implement that close to his face.

Sam made no movement, nothing to acknowledge that Dean had said anything. Dean tried not to sigh too loudly as he picked up the plate and took it to the small sink in the kitchenette. This was going to be such a long road. He gripped the sink tightly, trying to steady himself. He would be strong for Sam. He would. There were muffled noises behind him, and he turned his head just enough to see Sam out of the corner of his eye. Gone from his corner. Panic flooded Dean before he registered that the bathroom door had just clicked shut. Ok. Major progress today, then. He closed his eyes and took one more steadying breath then quietly moved to their bags, pulling out clean clothes for Sam.

A week later, they were still in the motel. Jody had called back with an update—Bobby’s place was theirs, free and clear. Apparently, he’d left it to them in a will. Dean was honestly surprised he’d planned that far ahead and that he thought the Winchesters would outlive him, especially considering the number of times they hadn’t. Dean had learned that Sam would do most anything he’d suggested but only after Dean stopped watching him. Dean couldn’t figure out why, other than a lot of really terrible shit had obviously happened to his brother, but he used it to his advantage. Sam was slowly starting to put on weight, obvious even after just one week thanks to his now regular food intake. He was also clean and reasonably well-rested, as far as Dean could tell. He was at least laying in the bed at night. Sleeping was debatable, but he hadn’t woken Dean up with nightmares even once, so there was that.

He also hadn’t spoken, which was starting to drive Dean a little crazy. He made noises, when he thought Dean wasn’t paying attention, so it wasn’t his vocal chords that were the problem. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sam staring at him. It was just about the only time Sam’s face showed emotion now, and the blatant hope and despair that fought for control when he was watching Dean threatened to crack Dean’s heart in two. Yesterday Dean had tried to provoke a reaction by being his most obnoxious self, and for a breathtaking moment he thought Sam was actually going to respond to him. He got full eye contact for the first time since the rescue, and Sam took a breath, retort obviously on his lips. Then, he seemed to catch himself and his mouth snapped shut. The bitch face he’d shot at the wall was epic though. Dean still chalked that one up as a win.

With Sam not talking, Dean talked for both of them, occasionally even carrying Sam’s half of the conversation. He told Sam about his ideas for fixing up Bobby’s, about how apparently they were homeowners now. He wondered out loud if they were going to have to get real jobs and worry about things like property taxes. He was still trying to figure out how to get Sam to Sioux Falls though.

 

Sam tried to sleep, but it was difficult when he was having full sensory hallucinations of his brother. At least, he was pretty sure that’s what was going on. It was difficult to tell when they never physically touched Sam. Maybe Dean was a ghost. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was actually in Hell and this was just an elaborate prank Lucifer had conjured up to torture him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, not engaging with Dean was the only safe course. If it was Hell, then Lucifer would bide his time until Sam broke down, gave in, and believed he was out. For a spoiled brat of an archangel, Lucifer was horrifically patient. By Sam’s count, the longest scenario had lasted almost ten years.

That one had been especially nice. He and Dean had retired to a house in the suburbs and trained hunters in their off-time. They’d even had a dog. In his weaker moments, Sam missed that illusion. They’d been safe, happy. In love.

He wanted this to be Hell. It would mean Dean was alive, topside. If it wasn’t, then Sam’s last coherent memory was of watching Dean explode with Dick Roman, and that meant Dean was dead. That was an option not worth considering. Except that Lucifer had never gotten Dean right. Not like this.

Hell. It had to be Hell. Just one more trick. Dean was alive, on Earth. It was Sam who was dead.

But hadn’t he gotten out? He thought—he’d been sure. As sure as he could be. There was the scar and stone number one. Then Dean had died and there were the cages ( _how had he escaped those? He couldn’t remember_ ). That pain had felt real. Scar on his hand real. So much more real than what he remembered of Hell.

He wanted to ask Dean, but there was an inherent problem with asking your hallucinations if they were real or not. Besides, if it was a Lucifer trick then he might get pissed off. Skepticism and doubt usually meant the scenario would continue. Complacency resulted in a cruel twist. Outright disbelief? Well, he’d only made that mistake once.

A tiny voice in Sam’s head kept reminding him that it could be real. Maybe someone else had brought Dean back from the dead again. It’s not like Sam ever could. No, Dean could bring Sam back, but it never seemed to work in reverse. But who? God was MIA, Hell hated them. Cas was dead too. There was no one.

But. No. Sam squeezed his eyes shut to stop the spinning thoughts. He pressed himself deeper into his corner and dug his nails deep into his palms. The hard surfaces and pain helped ground him. No one could sneak up on him here. He was safe.

Dimly, he heard Dean’s voice calling to him, felt hands on his face. Tears streaked his face, and he couldn’t remember if he’d started crying before or after the hands. It felt so good to be touched again. Except touch was bad. It hurt and brought torture and all kinds of pain. He should try to get away from the hands, even though they weren’t hurting him yet. It was always a matter of time. He told himself to pretend it was Dean. It made it easier, for a while, when they touched him.

The tears flowed faster, and the hands retreated. Good, except for how Sam missed them as soon as they were gone. Blindly, he reached out to follow them and ended up falling against a warm body. Dean, his mind supplied. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend better. He slumped against the person’s chest and sobbed and hated his weakness, but they hadn’t hurt him yet, and it felt so _good_. Maybe, maybe he would be able to enjoy this one.

Tentatively, he groped, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. If he made the first move, that made it his choice. He’d paid for doing that a few times, but it was worth the risk. He found the face that belonged to the hands and the body, and, God, it even felt like Dean’s face. Sam leaned up, brushing his lips against Dean’s. Warm, soft. For the barest moment the lips pressed back. A whine escaped him, and the lips vanished. His eyes flew open, and he recoiled when he saw the look on Dean’s face. (Not Dean. Definitely not Dean.) Bad. This was bad. This was one of the times he was going to pay, and judging by the look, it was going to be worse than usual. He curled into himself. It made him feel safer, even if it never actually protected him. Maybe it would this time. He braced himself for his punishment.

 

Dean watched Sam fold into himself and tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. What was still happening. Sam had kissed him. Sam had kissed him after having a panic attack or something like one. Dean’s stomach roiled. It hadn’t felt at all like their previous kisses, pre-Purgatory. Those had been so much softer. Never mind how Sam had yet to acknowledge him directly, even after almost two weeks. No, this was something twisted and wrong, and he’d been right to pull back, though it didn’t feel like it at the moment. He scrubbed a hand down his face and tried to figure out what to do. Sam’s reaction after Dean had broken the kiss had been to go fetal, and he’d started keening in his corner, subtly rocking in place.

Dean wanted to offer comfort or, or _something_. Anything. But he didn’t dare touch Sam. It hadn’t been this bad since that day he’d pulled Sam out of that damn cage, and he didn’t want to make it worse. But he couldn’t do nothing. Couldn’t let his brother continue to suffer like he obviously was, making wounded animal noises and cowering like a dog expecting a kick. Dean wasn’t sure what had shown on his face after the kiss, but he regretted it. He never wanted to be the reason Sam was this terrified.

“Hey, Sam. It’s okay. It’s okay, man. I’m not mad,” Dean muttered, talking softly as he shuffled closer. He kept talking, kept soothing. He took a chance and rested a hand on Sam’s knee, ready to move it at a moment’s notice if need be. Sam flinched, hard, and the whine increased in pitch and volume for a moment until it abruptly cut off. Sam met Dean’s gaze, eyes wide and shining bright with unshed tears.

Neither of them moved. Dean scarcely breathed, not wanting to break the moment. Sam was the one who ultimately broke the stalemate, glancing down at the hand on his knee. Hope, bright and fierce, bloomed over his face.

“It’s just me, Sam. I’m not mad, I swear. Not gonna hurt you.” Dean tried a smile. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

Sam’s tears had slowed to a stop as he stared at Dean, so long that it was started to unnerve Dean as much as the lack of eye contact had. His mouth worked, like he was trying to remember how to form words. Finally, he whispered in a voice hoarse from disuse, “Dean?”

 

They didn’t talk about the kiss. Dean wasn’t sure how, and he wasn’t sure Sam had even known what he was doing. That said, Sam talked after that. Not much, not often, and usually so softly Dean had to strain to hear it, but Sam was talking. It made life simpler.

In fact, it encouraged Dean so much that he decided they were done waiting around in this motel—despite being paid up for another week—and were heading for Sioux Falls as soon as Sam finished his shower. Meanwhile, he packed up their things.

He’d finished when Sam came out of the bathroom, dressed but still damp. He was gorgeous, and Dean’s attention became hyper-focused on the two stray water droplets lingering on Sam’s neck. Dean had been trying not to think about Sam like that. It wasn’t right—not now. Sam had obviously been through some shit, and Dean wasn’t going to be that asshole. The kiss had been fundamentally weird, and Dean got the willies anytime he thought too hard about it. So he absolutely did not think about all the filthy things that kiss had promised. No. And he definitely wasn’t thinking about his brother’s lips around his cock or how Sam’s neck would taste if Dean licked away those two innocent drops of water.

Dean cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. He silently prayed he hadn’t been staring. It probably didn’t matter. Sam had frozen when he came out of the bathroom and seen the duffels on the bed. “Sam?” Dean said after he’d composed his face back into its usual state of big brother concern.

Sam’s eyes flicked up and locked on Dean’s, asking, begging for answers to questions he apparently could not give voice to.

“We’re going to Bobby’s,” Dean said, as gently as he could manage. “I told you that. I’ll—we’ll—fix up the house, maybe run phones like he used to until you feel up to hunting again.”

Sam’s eyes flicked away at that, and his expression became unreadable.

Dean could read the stiffness in his body language, though, but he couldn’t figure out what had put it there. “It’ll be good. I promise. Now come on, I want to hit the state line before dinner.”

Yeah. Act like everything was normal, and it’d be normal. Sam wouldn’t be a shell of himself, and Dean wouldn’t be so hard up he was spending the better part of the day with a semi while he tried to respect Sam’s boundaries. Totally normal.

 

Sam told himself this was real. This was Dean driving the Impala. Driving them to Bobby’s ( _but wasn’t Bobby dead?_ ). Dean didn’t want to have sex with Sam. Or maybe he still did, but he thought Sam was too broken ( _true_ ). This was not an hallucination. Sam was definitely not driving anywhere ( _or was he? It had happened before._ )

The tires ate up the road and in truth, so long as Sam could hear Dean talking then it was relaxing. Sometimes, though, it reminded Sam of the vans. When his eyes grew heavy in the mid-afternoon sun and Dean stopped talking, Sam dreamed he was back there. Cuffs cutting into his wrists and ankles. Prepped and naked and delivered right to the door of whichever sick fuck was paying for him for the evening. So, after the first afternoon where he’d woken up screaming, he pulled out every trick in the book to keep himself awake. To keep himself present. He’d always known he wasn’t strong enough to maintain his disbelief forever. Ever since the incident two days ago, he’d felt that façade slipping. His desire to have Dean back was just too strong. It felt weird, thinking of keeping himself present in an illusion, but he didn’t try to analyze it. Let it be Dean. Let this be his reality.

That said, the rumble of the Impala and Dean’s voice were a lullaby he’d known since infancy. By the time they hit the first rest stop of the day Sam was a nervous wreck. He’d already fallen asleep twice and woken so disoriented he’d nearly driven them off the road.

He watched Dean disappear into the convenience store and pulled out his smallest blade—a pocket knife John had given to him when he was five. Too small to use regularly but still well maintained, it was sharp enough to do the job. He pricked the pad of his right index finger—painful and an easy spot to hide from Dean right now—before tucking the blade away. Sam sighed in relief as he pinched his finger pad, and for one blinding, beautiful moment he was 100% sure he was alive. Then Dean came out of the store, and Sam felt the doubt return and wreath his mind like a shroud. How could this possibly be real?

 

Dean settled into the driver’s seat and tossed a bag of snacks at Sam before gently handing over a large coffee. As much as he’d hoped Sam would get some rest, the nightmares were going to kill them both. Better to try to keep the kid awake until they stopped for the night.

Back on the road, Dean waited for Sam to start the chick flick moment he’d been brewing since the rest stop. He was frowning into his coffee, perfecting his brooding stare. Every so often he’d glance over at Dean, then away again.

“Spit it out, Sam,” he ordered.

He felt Sam’s eyes boring into him before Sam broke his silence. “How are you here?”

Dean had wondered when they’d get to that. He told Sam the basics—Purgatory, portal, Cas staying behind.

He saw Sam wince, then his expression cleared and he seemed more present than he had all morning. “I thought you were dead.” Sam’s voice was small, but his face held so much emotion Dean thought he was about two seconds from a breakdown.

Dean swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in his throat and said, “Yeah. The feeling was mutual for a while.” Dean wanted to apologize for not finding Sam sooner, but he didn’t want to have that conversation. He never wanted to know exactly how long Sam had been held captive. The answer would always be “too long.” All he knew was that the trail had gone cold by the time he got topside and that it took another four months for him to track Sam down.

Sam narrowed his eyes, searching Dean’s expression. Dean wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but whatever he found made Sam’s expression harden. “What did you do?”

Dean kept driving, barely looking over at Sam. “Nothing.”

“Dean.” That was Sam’s I-would-punch-you-if-you-weren’t-driving voice. It had been too damn long since Dean had heard it, and it made him grin.

“Nothing, Sam. I always knew I’d find you.”

“You just said—”

“Yeah. I did. Was always going to come for you. Wherever you were.” He tried not to react under Sam’s penetrating gaze. He hoped this would be the end of it. The conversation was already skirting uncomfortable territory, and he didn’t want it to get worse.

“How’d you find me, Dean?”

Dean shrugged. “Old fashioned legwork, mostly. Also got my hands on a tracking spell from a friend of Jody’s.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised incredulously. “You did spellwork?”

Dean scoffed. “Bobby did spells all the time.”

“Yeah, but that’s Bobby. You hate witches.”

“Dude, one tracking spell doesn’t make me a fricking witch.” Dean glared at Sam, completely ignoring the road as Sam attempted to stifle a grin. He failed and promptly broke into bright laughter.

It was a beautiful sound, one Dean had secretly feared he’d never hear again. It did funny things to him, like made his heart melt into a gooey puddle. In that moment, Dean was sure he’d do anything he could to keep Sam laughing like that.

 

Sam watched Dean work on Bobby’s house. The sounds from the nail gun made him flinch enough that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be comfortable using a real gun again. They hadn’t talked about it more than in passing, but Sam knew Dean wanted to keep hunting. Eventually. At least there was a house to rebuild first.

Something had changed between them in recent weeks. Sam kept catching Dean staring at him, then looking away, embarrassed. Like a schoolgirl with a crush. Most of the time, Sam was sure he was imagining it, but he was pretty sure he was imagining everything, most days. When he was at least sure of reality, he was sure he was far too broken for Dean to want to pick things up with him where they’d left off. Still, the attention, real or imagined, felt nice. He pressed his fingers into his newest cut and sighed in relief. He was still with Dean in South Dakota. Dean was still cutting two by fours in the yard with his shirt off.

A shirtless Dean was very distracting. And decidedly unfair. Sam was still in layers despite the unusually high heat so near October. He had scars, both visible and not, that he didn’t like showing off. Even if Dean had been there for most of them. Still, Sam was going to melt in his flannel if he left it on, and removing it might give him some more insight into whether or not he’d been imagining Dean’s heated looks.

His t-shirt was old and too tight. He only kept it because it was easily the softest of any of his shirts, and lately—No. He was an adult. A hunter that had taken down the Devil himself. He did not need a security blanket. Especially one in the form of an ancient shirt that may or may not have once belonged to Dean. He left it on anyway, simply shrugging off the plaid overshirt. He immediately felt cooler and settled in to enjoy watching Dean work.

Every few minutes he pressed on his cut, this one on his outer thigh so as to be less obvious. Shockingly, every time, every single time, the pain spiked, and the world stayed solid around him. He didn’t know how this was real—doubted he’d ever be able to fully trust it—but it was, by every test he could think to put it through.

Sleep tugged at him, as it often did these days, and he rested his head against the Impala’s windshield. Dean was there. He would keep Sam safe.

 

Dean stopped working long enough to watch his little brother napping on the car. He was infinitely grateful he’d stopped the saw first; Sam in just a t-shirt—one of Dean’s old t-shirts—was distracting, and Dean didn’t especially want to have to get any fingers sewn back on.

Worry still niggled the back of his brain, but he shoved it down. Once Sam had started talking again things had been better, easier. Dean knew the trauma hadn’t gone away. He’s been through enough himself to know that wasn’t how it worked. But at the end of the day, he missed Sam. Missed going to bed with him, in every sense of the phrase. Missed what they’d had—so briefly—before Dean wound up in Purgatory.

His gaze softened. Sam looked almost happy. He was still too thin, and his hair was too short, but it was getting better. Deciding to call it a day—only an hour early, he could make it up tomorrow—he nudged Sam to wakefulness. As his brother shifted and stretched, Dean caught sight of several scabbed over wounds on Sam’s arms. Straight, made with a blade. Recent. Those definitely hadn’t been there when he’d found Sam. They hadn’t been hunting, hadn’t even gotten into a bar fight because Dean was being so damn careful with Sam. It left exactly one possibility. Sam had cut his arms up himself.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean growled, suddenly furious.

Sam froze. His pupils dilated in fear and the rest of him seemed to shrink as he subconsciously tried to make himself smaller, less threatening. Less noticeable. The reaction made Dean feel sick but did little to dampen his anger. Sam should have _said_ something. Still, he could read the terror and confusion on Sam’s face and tried to reign himself in. Sam had no idea why Dean was mad. That almost made it worse.

Dean held up Sam’s arm so the marks could be seen. “This, Sam. Why?”

Sam didn’t fight him. It was surreal, watching his gigantic, strong baby brother shut down so completely. His expression closed off, and his arm hung limply from Dean’s hand. His breathing was so shallow that it was only the faint trembling Dean could feel that told him Sam was even alive.

With a horrifying start, Dean realized he recognized the look on Sam’s face. He’d seen it in Hell, thousands of times. It had been his signal that the soul in front of him was ready to move on to Alistair’s rack. That they were sufficiently broken. He dropped Sam’s arm with a strangled yelp and jumped back like he’d been burned. No no no, he didn’t do that to Sam. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t that guy anymore. He was topside; they both were.

Dean wasn’t sure how long it took for him to come completely back to himself. When he did, Sam was sitting on the ground next to him with his eyes squeezed shut. They were both leaning against the side of the car. Sam’s head was down, and he kept rubbing his hands together. After a minute, Dean realized Sam was subtly pushing on his scarred left hand with every pass. He watched it happen a few more times, then saw him drop a hand to his thigh, digging in. Sam winced, then his whole body seemed to relax slightly.

That was—Shit. Dean understood now, or thought he did. Finally, he cleared his throat and quietly asked, “What are you seeing?”

Sam wouldn’t look up. “Just you.”

Dean considered this, then asked, “Just now, or all the time?”

Sam was quiet when he spoke. “All the time.”

Dean nodded. He was exhausted and didn’t want to have this conversation, ever, but it seemed necessary. “I’m real, Sam.”

Sam scoffed. “Hallucinations always say that.”

Dean leaned back, watched the sun dipping behind the trees. “Yeah, guess they would. That why you’ve been hacking up your arms?”

Sam flinched, but nodded. “The scar doesn’t help anymore, but a—wound—a fresh one—”

Dean held up a hand. “Stop. I get it.” He sighed. “We gotta find you a better way to cope.”

Sam furrowed his brow and twisted his hands together. “This works. I barely even draw blood, just—”

“No.” Dean’s voice was harsher than he’d intended, and they both flinched a little. “No, Sam,” he said, gentler. “One day you’ll get desperate or scared. You’ll cut too deep, and I’ll—” Dean shook his head ignoring the burning behind his eyes. “Don’t do that to me. Please.”

Sam nodded, slowly. “Yeah, ok. We’ll find something else.”

Dean nodded too and let his head fall back against the car. It would be dark soon; he should clean up the tools. It was hard to get himself to move though, especially when Sam leaned against him.

“This ok?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. I thought—I didn’t—” Dean couldn’t find the words to express how nice it felt to have Sam willingly touching him again.

“Shut up,” Sam said, tucking himself under Dean’s arm. “It helps. You always helped.”

“Bitch,” he said fondly.

“Love you too, jerk.”

 


End file.
